


The Bet

by megzseattle



Series: The Serpent and The Seagull [3]
Category: Good Omens, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Arguments, Bad Decisions, Dorks in Love, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), angels are very competitive, never make a bet with someone as crazy as you are, snek stories, so are demons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-25 14:18:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19747441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megzseattle/pseuds/megzseattle
Summary: Crowley goads Aziraphale into a bet to see who can go the longest without performing a miracle. Unfortunately, both of them find it hard not to cheat.





	1. It All Began Over Breakfast

“Here you are, love,” Aziraphale said cheerily one morning, placing a steaming cup of tea in front of Crowley, who sat at the small breakfast table reading the papers. “Freshly brewed, just the way you like it.” 

Crowley had been waiting quite some time for his angel, who insisted that tea that was hand made just tasted better than tea that was miracled into existence. He took a hurried sip. 

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I think you might be onto something. That does taste especially good.” 

Aziraphale grinned in delight and sat down next to him. “See? I told you. You don’t always need to do a miracle for every little thing.” He leaned over and pulled a piece of toast off the plate in front of them, spreading marmalade on it in a thick pile before taking a dainty bite. 

“Well yes,” Crowley said, “but I _like_ doing miracles.”

“And I _like_ brewing tea,” Aziraphale said reasonably. “And tending to the books. And popping down to the bakery instead of making tarts appear as needed.”

Crowley humphed and kept sipping his tea. “I bet you couldn’t go twenty-four hours without doing a miracle if you tried,” he said a little dismissively.

Aziraphale drew himself up to full height. “I certainly could!” he insisted. “I could certainly go longer than _you_ could.” 

Crowley looked up with a glint in his eye. “Oh really,” he drawled. “This from the man who magicked himself a pair of mittens yesterday because he didn’t want to go ten feet back into the shop to get them.”

“This from the man who refuses to dress and undress himself like normal people and just abracadabras his clothes on every day,” Aziraphale replied cheekily. 

Crowley grinned, beginning to enjoy himself immensely. “This from the angel who has been known to use miracles to send his post off, because he doesn't want to go buy a stamp.” 

“When,” Aziraphale said pointedly, “is the last time you’ve parked the Bentley without using a miracle, my dear? This _is_ London, after all.”

Crowley leaned forward and slapped both hands on the breakfast table, rather loudly, and fixed Aziraphale with a smirk. “You want to try me, angel? I’m game.”

“Wha- what do you mean?” 

“Let’s have a little competition. See who can go the longest without using a miracle.” Crowley smiled wolfishly. 

Aziraphale considered it for a moment. “That’s ridiculous,” he said, “and childish.”

Crowley leaned back and laced his hands behind his head. “Ah, well,” he said in a world-weary tone he knew would drive the angel crazy. “If you know you can’t do it, that’s fine. I understand! It’s not easy to have your inadequacies pointed out to –”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, I can _do_ it, I can do it better than you can, and you’re just kidding yourself if you think otherwise.” Aziraphale sniffed. “I have self-discipline!” 

Crowley leaned forward again, smiling in that snake-like way he had sometimes. “Then let’s bet on it, angel. Put your money where your mouth is.” 

“Oh fine! I’ll take your wager,” Aziraphale said. “Terms?”

Crowley thought for a moment. 

“One,” he said, “no lying.”

“Oh that hardly needs to be said,” Aziraphale protested.

“Two – no miracles of any kind, starting immediately.”

“Well obviously.”

“Three – winner gets to pick an expensive weekend getaway of their choice, all details and arrangements provided by the loser.”

Aziraphale stared at him for a moment, then smiled with a great deal of self-satisfaction. “I know just where you can take me when this silly game is over,” he said. 

“We’ll see about that,” Crowley said, and stuck his hand out towards Aziraphale. 

The angel shook it briskly. 

They grinned predatorily for a moment at each other, and then both looked away.

 _He's done for,_ Crowley thought. _I've got this in my back pocket._

 _Foolish demon._ Aziraphale thought. _There is literally no chance of him winning._

Their eyes met for a moment, and they both smiled smugly, before moving on with their day.


	2. The Game Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Crowley and Aziraphale are both too competitive for their own good. Is anyone really surprised by this?_  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .

**Chapter Two**

The first day passed peacefully enough. Aziraphale tended shop, refraining all day from using miracles to frighten any shoppers away and instead relying on the age-old shopkeeper tactic of offering a completely irritating level of hovering and suspicion to anyone who stopped in. Soon enough, even the most resolute shopper became offended and left.

Crowley watered his plants, looked through his post, did a little random online shopping (and avoided the temptation to miracle himself any free shipping), and they ended the evening making pasta and watching a film together, curled up on the couch with Frederick the snake dozing away between them. 

Frederick, for his part, woke up and scented the air a few times with his small forked tongue, noticing an unusual amount of watchfulness and tension in the air, before giving the snake equivalent of a shrug and going back to sleep. He was used to these two by now – and of the firm opinion that they both clearly had a few screws loose. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t worth getting worked up over.

++

Demons were nothing if not competitive at heart. Each of them wanted to be the biggest and baddest, the vilest, the smelliest, the most crusted in boils. Crowley didn’t share most of these exact impulses (he preferred to be uncrusted, thank you), but he did have a deep-seated, driven desire to win at almost any cost. 

Seeing how easily Aziraphale got through a day without miracles got Crowley thinking. He was determined to win this, and without breaking the rules. He couldn’t perform a miracle himself, and he wouldn’t perform one and then lie about it. If there was one thing the demon held as holy in his long life, it was that he did not lie to Aziraphale. Not ever. He’d obfuscate, stretch the truth, distract and redirect and even pick an argument to avoid a conversation he didn’t want to have, for sure, but not lie. And besides, even if he tried to hide a miracle, the angel would be able to tell. He’d either see the guilt in his eyes or sense a little residual demonic energy from the act itself. 

However, nothing said he couldn’t do a little tempting to make it easy – or outright irresistible – for the angel to be the first one to break. That was definitely _not_ excluded by the rules, and thus entirely fair game. He smirked and began plotting. 

++

You might think that angels are not competitive creatures, being entities of peace and love who were created to glorify the creator and her works. You might easily think that angels were above all of that, thinking only of good deeds and joy and the workings of the ineffable plan, and far, far, too good to sully themselves with any kind of dog-eat-dog instincts for self-glorification at the expense of others. 

You would be wrong on every count.

Aziraphale, much as he liked to think himself beyond such things, was intensely competitive at heart. He had done his best, early on, to match Crowley, wile for thwart, at every turn, and he took pride in his ability to not only keep up but occasionally exceed his adversary’s expectations. He was occasionally competitive about meeting and exceeding his quotas for helping people and filing the best reports to Above. And he was certainly competitive about being able to outbid, outsmart, and outfox the other book collectors he knew, when it came to acquiring a particularly choice volume. Winning, he had discovered over the millennia, could be quite exhilarating. 

And he was _certainly_ competitive about this absurd bet of Crowley’s devising, particularly after the demon surprised him by placidly sticking to it for the entire first twenty-four hours without so much as a twitch. 

Aziraphale was simply going to win. He was going to win without breaking the rules. He was going to best the demon at every turn, and if he played a slight bit dirty to do so, who would be the wiser? 

++

“Lunch?” Aziraphale suggested the next afternoon, taking the liberty of flipping the door sign to closed after the last disgruntled customer left. 

“Sounds good,” Crowley said. “What are you in the mood for? Indian? Chinese?” 

“Let’s try the Italian place a couple blocks over,” the angel said. “It’s all the rage, I hear.”

 _Here comes challenge number one,_ Aziraphale thought, smiling to himself. 

Sure enough, the Italian restaurant was quite alluring, exactly the type of place they had come to love, and was absolutely packed. It had been quite a while since Crowley had actually tried to get a table without just willing one into existence at the exact moment they needed it. It took him a minute to even figure out what to do – but he carefully kept his face neutral as he went to talk to the maître-d. 

He could feel Aziraphale watching him closely as he had a brief and frustrating conversation with the human. He shook it off and walked back over to the angel with a smile on his face. 

“They can’t seat us for an hour,” Crowley said with a false cheerful tone. “Let’s try somewhere else.” 

Three restaurants later, with Crowley practically vibrating with frustration, they finally ended up at a small pub, packed in at a tiny table near the bathrooms. 

“Oh, this is just lovely,” Aziraphale gushed, looking around at the swinging restroom doors wafting an ammonia-like smell towards their gritty, tiny table where they were smushed in about six inches from their nearest neighbors. He smiled beatifically at Crowley. “Such ambiance!” 

“Oh shut up,” Crowley groused. “You’re being a pain on purpose.” 

Aziraphale grinned and picked up his menu. One point to Crowley for resisting. He wasn’t concerned. 

++

Crowley didn’t even have to offer Aziraphale his first temptation – the angel did it to himself. 

When they got back to the shop after lunch, Aziraphale made a big show of picking up the rarely-used feather duster and virtuously setting about cleaning the bookshelves. Crowley, amused, sat down to watch. The angel clearly had no idea how long cleaning a shop of this size manually was going to take, having used a constant, low-grade series of miracles to keep the place sparkling and dust free for the last few centuries. He gave the angel three days at most before the dust level alone would drive him out of his mind. 

Forty-five minutes later, having gotten through only three rows of the immense amount of bookshelves he had ahead of him, Aziraphale looked a little deflated. 

“Big job, isn’t it?” Crowley called in a conversational tone. “Be easier with a little miracle.”

Aziraphale put down the duster on the desk and stretched. “No need,” he said crisply. “I’ll just take a little break and get back to that, I think,” he said calmly, and went off to make tea.

One point to the angel, Crowley thought. He’d break him down eventually. 

++

That night they had takeaway for dinner, which they ate from the cartons on the couch in front of the television Crowley had brought with him when he moved in. They settled in cosily to watch a few episodes of a talent show Crowley enjoyed, mainly because he loved laughing at the horrible performances and people’s misguided impressions of their own talent. Aziraphale, feeling virtuous, preferred to root for the underdog. Either way, it gave them something to pleasantly bicker about, which was an experience they both enjoyed, and had become a lovely way to spend the occasional evening.

It turned out to be a rather gripping episode, as two unexpectedly talented singers ended up squaring off for the final win. Aziraphale was rooting for the young lady, who had a warm, lovely presence and a crystal-clear singing voice. Crowley was rooting hard for the dark horse, a metal-inspired early-20-something boy who was surprisingly soulful when he sang. They were both on the edge of their seats waiting for the judges’ tally when all of a sudden –

_The television went off with a zap._

Crowley picked up the remote and pounded various buttons without result, then rounded on Aziraphale accusingly. “Did you cut the power??”

Aziraphale frowned back. “Well no, of course not – why would I?”

“To tempt me into fixing it with a miracle!!” Crowley looked outraged even at the idea. 

“My dear,” the angel said, the picture of innocence. “That’s a little paranoid!”

Crowley shook a finger at him. “We said no lying…”

Aziraphale looked him in the eye, projecting sincerity. “I couldn’t have done a miracle to turn the television off, you would have _felt_ it!” 

This had the advantage of being absolutely true, so the angel felt no guilt about saying it. There had, actually, been nothing miraculous involved in the way he manually mucked about with the wires on the back of the television earlier, while Crowley was out collecting wine from a shop. If he'd left a few connections hanging by a thread and in danger of coming loose, that could certainly be viewed as accidental. 

Aziraphale smiled sweetly at his partner, who grumbled and continued to press buttons to no avail.

The angel paused for a moment, then perked up as if he'd just had a thought. “You could, though, you know. Fix it. Quick, easy miracle. Would be nice to know who won the vote, wouldn’t it?” 

Crowley groaned and all but sat on his hands. “Stop it. I’m not going to fix it. We’ll just have to… what? Call for a repair? Oh hell, I’ll throw it out and go buy a new one tomorrow.”

Aziraphale looked curious. “Do you even know where to get a television set, my dear? I’m pretty sure this one just appeared when you snapped your fingers.”

Crowley stalked off to bed without comment. 

++

The next morning at breakfast, Aziraphale was munching on a piece of toast and sipping his tea while Crowley fussed around putting together a complicated omelet. For someone who ate so rarely, the demon was a surprisingly passable cook when he needed to be. His repertoire wasn’t huge, but he could make a few serviceable dishes reliably well if something hit his fancy. 

“You want half, angel?” Crowley asked from the stove as he slid the omelet onto a plate. 

“Mmm, smells scrumptious, thank you dear!” Aziraphale said with a fond smile. 

Crowley carefully cut it into equal portions and carried two plates over to the table. He placed his plate down carefully, and then leaned across the table rather precariously to place Aziraphale’s plate in front of him. 

He _somehow_ lost his balance, just a little.

Aziraphale watched in slow motion as a large blob of egg and cheese drifted off the side of his now lopsided plate and fell directly down onto his jacket sleeve with a sludgy, slushy plop.

“Bloody hell,” Crowley muttered, looking concerned. “I’m sorry!”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” the angel cried, leaping up and shaking his sleeve into the sink to dislodge what he could. “How could you be so careless? You know this is my favorite coat!” 

The angel looked mournfully at the large, yolky mess on the sleeve of his favorite Edwardian jacket. He wet a small flannel and began carefully dabbing at the stain, gave up in despair, and then froze. 

He could feel Crowley watching him intensely and almost guiltily from the other side of the room. 

“You!” he said, turning to point aggressively at the demon. “You did this on purpose!” 

“What?” Crowley said, sounding surprised. “I really didn’t! I just slipped. You know how my legs are. All wobbly.” 

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “You know I never wash this coat – it’s too fragile! How am I supposed to get this out without a miracle?” 

Crowley beamed at him. “Sounds like you’ll have to go ahead and use one, then,” he pronounced. “It’s okay, you gave it a good run.” 

Aziraphale practically sputtered with indignation. “You – you – you are SUCH A DEMON SOMETIMES!” he shouted, before pulling his coat off and heading out to find a dry cleaner. 

_The stakes were clearly rising_ , he thought to himself. _Well, two could play this game._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
> .  
> Yes, they're behaving badly. Stay tuned - all will be well in the end! :)  
> .  
> 7/11/19 - Are you a Frederick fan? Please go see - the lovely @rocketbeagle did a drawing of Frederick the snake! I love it. Go like their post on tumblr: https://rocketbeagle.tumblr.com/post/186197588881/frederick


	3. Playing to Win

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Frederick does his best to intervene as the angel and the demon continue to strive for victory._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand... here is the Frederick-heavy chapter you've all been secretly waiting for. You have, right? You're welcome. :)

.  
.  
**Chapter 3**  
.  
.  
Frederick was not, in general, a worrier. Most snakes were not. But he had to admit, he was beginning to feel a strange sensation that was not unlike concern about the two large creatures he lived with. They appeared to be deliberately antagonizing each other almost to the point of distraction, and it was interfering with his nap schedule. 

He became particularly worried after the soft, fluffy one yelled loudly at the hard, pointy one and then stormed out, jacket in hand. It was unlike the fluffy one to yell, after all. Frederick was used to viewing him as an almost endless source of good will, snacks, and head boops. 

The pointy one also appeared to be not his usual self. After the pale, rounder creature left, Frederick noted, his dark, brimstone-smelling friend wandered around the shop touching things and looking significantly more slouchy and bedraggled than usual. 

He eventually sat down on the stool next to Frederick’s perch beside the cash register and began talking to him quietly.

++ 

“Do you think I overdid it?” Crowley asked Frederick. Of course, he knew the snake couldn’t talk back – he was, as far as he knew, the only _talking_ serpent in the world. 

YES OF COURSE YOU DID, YOU GIANT PILLOCK, Frederick tried to convey through body language. From Crowley’s perspective, this came off as a simple tightening of various coils and loops. 

“I didn’t mean to upset him,” Crowley admitted. “Just playing the game, is all. Thought he was going to smite me for a minute, there.” He thought for a few minutes while the snake flicked his tongue at him impatiently. 

APOLOGIZE TO THE GIANT FLUFFBALL, Frederick shouted psychically, to no avail.

“Perhaps I should apologize. Get him a little gift. A book usually helps when I’m in the hot seat,” Crowley said. “Where did I put my laptop when I moved in?”

He usually did his shopping on Aziraphale’s ancient desktop computer, which he would miracle to work faster than normal, but for this he wanted his own computer with its processing speed faster than a team of snails pulling a sledge. He dug for a good forty-five minutes through various boxes he had never quite finished unpacking, and eventually pulled out his top-of-the-line, high-powered laptop with a flourish. 

“Aha!” he said. “Now I’ll just see what’s on the market in terms of highly impressive rare books, and I’ll be back in the angel’s good graces in no time!”

He sat down at the coffee table, opened the laptop screen, hit the power button, and waited. And waited. And continued to wait. 

It took him a full five minutes of staring at it in confusion before realization dawned, all at once.

The power cord. He had thrown it away with the packaging because, to date, none of his electronics had ever needed a power cord to function. They just functioned without batteries, cords, and chargers because he _willed_ them to. 

With a groan, he slammed the screen shut and tried out a few of his favorite curse words. Frederick, sensing his distress, supportively joined him by hissing at the offending metal box. 

“Ok, fine,” he shouted to the room at large. “I’ll just go out and shop like a normal person! You won’t break me!”

Crowley headed out into the neighborhood on foot, badly needing to burn off some energy and tension. He sorely missed the ability to magic a bit of mischief on various people he passed on the street. He made up for it by committing random acts of civic disobedience – crossing against the light, dropping his recyclable coffee cup in the trash bin, and giving incorrect directions to tourists. It cheered him up just a little bit, and if he got distracted and forgot about the present, what of it? 

++

The stakes were clearly going up, Aziraphale thought to himself as he walked home from leaving his coat with a very skilled drycleaner. The demon wasn’t cheating, per se – he had no doubt that Crowley hadn’t hidden any miracles from him in the last few days. But he did seem to be doing everything in his power to arrange for Aziraphale to get frustrated and whip up a frivolous miracle before he could stop himself. Even – he huffed just to think of it! – sullying his nearly two-hundred-year-old, mint condition coat. 

_Two could play this game._

He waited until late afternoon before he made his next request. 

“Crowley, dear,” he called from his desk to where the demon was sprawled out on the couch fiddling with something on his cell phone. “I need a favor. Will you be a love and help me out?” 

Crowley sat up, curious. “What do you need?”

“I’ve got a book pickup from a dealer up north of here, in Paddington – several boxes worth, and it’s simply too much for me to carry on the tube. Could you drive me?”

Crowley frowned. “It’s nearly rush hour. You want me to drive you somewhere right now?” 

Aziraphale smiled beguilingly at him. “Please? It won’t take long.” He fluttered his eyelashes. “I’ll buy you dinner!”

Crowley reluctantly sat up and dug around for his car keys. 

“All right, let’s get this over with,” he said resignedly. 

“Do you have petrol?” Aziraphale asked, not willing to take it quite that far.

“I’ve had a full tank of petrol for nearly forty years,” Crowley said brightly. “This will be the first time it has ever been used! Should be fun.” 

Traffic was, as Aziraphale had expected, just wretched getting from Soho to the north end of Paddington. He tried to keep quiet as Crowley fretted about his inability to bend traffic lights in his favor and magically open a lane ahead of him. Instead of his usual 90 miles per hour, he was forced to crawl through stop-and-go traffic at a mere twenty, sometimes less.

Crowley was obviously trying to play it cool. The tap of his fingers on the steering wheel was the only outward sign of his agitation he showed at first, but as his frustration grew he literally began to twitch in his seat. 

“Oh COME ON!” he shouted as yet another cab cut him off and left him behind at a red light. 

“Sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale said softly, a little regretful about causing his friend this much agitation. Perhaps things were getting a little out of hand. “I should have waited until later tonight.”

Crowley grunted noncommittally. “You didn’t know,” he said. Then he took a sidelong glance at the angel, who stared straight ahead into traffic. “Or did you?”

“What? No,” Aziraphale said untruthfully, feeling a little prickle of guilt. “Of course not.” 

They finally reached their destination, where, predictably, there was not a parking space in sight. 

Crowley, all but growling, planted the car in a disabled spot and turned on his hazard lights. 

“Right, well let’s get a wiggle on before this ends badly,” Aziraphale said, hopping out. They made remarkably quick work of finding the studio they were looking for, completing the transaction, and lugging four boxes of old books back to the car. 

“No, no, no, no, NO! Of all the --” Crowley shouted, dropping his two boxes on the ground. There, on his windshield was a bright yellow and black plastic sleeve with the words “PENALTY CHARGE NOTICE” emblazoned on it in block capitals. 

A parking citation. He, Anthony J Crowley, had received a parking citation, and there was nothing he could do about it. 

Crowley raised his fingers into snapping position and all but vibrated for a moment, deciding whether to disappear the ticket or burn it to a crisp. 

For a moment, a brief, shining moment, Aziraphale could see victory before him. That is, until Crowley gave a tremendous groan and dropped his hand. He pulled the ticket off the window and stared at it in distaste.

“Oh, I _am_ sorry my dear,” Aziraphale said, genuinely.

“itsfinedontworryaboutit” he muttered in one long string of syllables, hopping into the drivers’ seat and gunning the engine. “Let’s go.” 

It took them forty-five minutes to get home. 

++

Aziraphale headed off to take a bath shortly after they got home, and Crowley, feeling restless, prowled discontentedly around the shop, living, and office areas. He couldn’t _believe_ the angel hadn’t slipped yet. And he didn’t buy for one second the angel’s innocent act about the traffic situation. He had the feeling he’d been set up, and more than once. 

He checked on each of his plants, muttering threats to assure them that they better keep themselves green and pristine now that he couldn’t miracle any assistance to them, and they did their best to comply. 

He straightened and tidied. He did a few situps. And then, he got a closer look at the back of the television set. 

“That utter bastard,” Crowley said, completely impressed.

++

When Aziraphale came down the next morning, he was surprised to find Crowley actually reading. Reading a book. On the sofa. And looking quite absorbed. 

The angel could count on one hand the number of times he had ever seen Crowley read. Demons preferred movies, or comics, or the news, but rarely had the interest or patience to sit down and read an entire book, cover to cover. 

“What’re you reading?” Aziraphale said curiously. 

“Wuthering Heights,” Crowley said. “It’s not bad.”

Aziraphale smiled. “It’s right up your alley, actually. All dark and tortured. I’m glad you’re enjoying it!”

The book in question appeared to be old. The angel nervously tried to examine it from his perch a few feet away, and was fairly certain it was _not_ a first edition, which was something of a relief, but nonetheless it was an old and beautiful book.

“Let’s go get muffins,” the angel said, smiling at Crowley and resolving to be a little less feral about the competition today. “It’s a beautiful morning.”

Crowley smiled back at him, made a mental calculation, and decided bringing this whole bet thing to a quick and decisive end was worth the risk. 

“Sounds good to me! Let me just mark my place.” And then, after surreptitiously making sure the angel was still watching, he casually dog-eared the page he was on before putting the book down on the table. 

“CROWLEY!” Aziraphale cried, aghast. “You just folded down the corner of a page!”

Crowley looked confused. “I did?” 

Aziraphale ripped the book off the table – gently – and opened it, smoothing out the affected page corner. “You certainly did! It’s creased!” 

Crowley sensed that his shining moment of victory was at hand. He could see the angel quiver with the almost unstoppable need to fix it immediately the way he fixed any damage to his precious books – with a quick and subtle miracle. He laid a finger over the crease and caressed if he were about to do just that –- but then he stopped suddenly, ran one hand through his hair with a frustrated groan, and walked over to drop it onto a pile of items on his desk he would have to sort later, once this ridiculous bet was over. 

He fixed Crowley with a dark look. “I know what you’re up to, you infernal beast.” 

Crowley decided the best defense was a good offense. “You know, I noticed the strangest thing last night,” he said conversationally. “It looks like someone messed with the wires on the back of the television set! You wouldn’t know anything about how that happened would you?”

Aziraphale stuttered to a stop. 

“Fix the television,” Crowley said, pointedly. 

“Don’t touch my books,” Aziraphale retorted, his face red. “Not until I say you can.” 

Crowley pointed an accusatory finger at him. “You made me get a parking ticket!” 

“You squirted egg on my jacket!” Aziraphale shouted.

“It was an accident!” Crowley yelled back.

Aziraphale scoffed. “Liar.” 

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “Pot?” he said icily. “Kettle?”

They stared at each other in outraged silence for a few moments.

“I don’t want any muffins. I’ve got work to do.” Aziraphale finally muttered, coldly.

“Fine by me,” Crowley said, heading for the door. “I’ve got things to attend to too.”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

The front bell tinkled behind him as the demon left, slamming the door behind him.

++

Frederick watched all of this from his basket on the other side of the room, and fretted about the big mess these two were making of their peaceful home. It looked like he was going to have to take things into his own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
> .  
> .  
> Thank you for reading so far! I believe I will wrap this up in chapter four, but I've been wrong about that so far -- so stay tuned! If you're not already, please go to the series page and subscribe so you'll get a prompt for anything new in the Serpent and the Seagull universe. :) 
> 
> A brief note in Crowley's defense: he did quite carefully pick a book which was not a first edition, and the minor crease he caused he knows is entirely repairable. Nonetheless, he's being quite devilish, I'm aware. 
> 
> And yes, I do realize the boys are both completely out of control but it will all end well. I promise.


	4. Saved By A Snake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frederick takes control.

**Chapter Four**

Time to take things into my own hands, Frederick thought to himself. Not that he had any hands, but he didn’t have the time or the brainpower to think of a better analogy. These two blockheads were obviously going to drive themselves to the point of a breakup if he didn’t intervene, and he had no intention of becoming a shared custody snake, splitting his time between the warm and cozy bookstore and some dank and cold apartment on the other side of town. 

As a rule, pet snakes are not allowed a lot of freedom in their home environments. Multiple books and web sites offer dire warnings about how snakes are escape artists and will spend large amounts of time testing every corner of their cages and surroundings for holes, cracks, and other avenues through which they might slither off to freedom.  


Frederick, however, being a reasonable creature, had quite quickly come to an unspoken agreement with his fluffy, soft owner. In return for nearly endless amounts of love, warmth on demand, and mouse-sicles whenever he needed them, he agreed to not run off. As a result, Aziraphale had been able to enjoy letting his pet have full run of the store – he could sit out on the windowsill without being enclosed in his vivarium, sleep in his favorite basket without anyone having to put a lid on it, and generally coil wherever he wanted. 

He truly saw no advantage in running away, and Frederick was all about whatever would best serve his own interests. 

Until now, that is. He did some calculations in his head, figured out the best way to bring these two to their senses, and set off to find the best and most impenetrable hiding place he could. 

++

Crowley had never gotten around to selling his old apartment, and so it was to there that he retreated after their argument. Very little was left – his severe leather couch was still there because neither of them really wanted it, as was the statue of the angels wrestling; he and Aziraphale had never been able to agree on a place to put it. Aside from that, he’d left behind his old throne-inspired desk chair (which honestly, he’d never really cared for, having developed a taste for overstuffed furniture in recent decades), some stacks of glossy magazines about cars and fashion, and the occasional bit of clothing and other ephemera he hadn’t loved enough to bring. 

He dug around in the kitchen until he found a neglected bottle of wine, threw himself at the couch, and began a determined sulk.

++

Aziraphale had had enough – the demon was clearly trying to infuriate him into a discorporation. First his jacket, and now his books? That was taking things a bit too far, no arguments brooked. What had he done in return? Stopped him from watching a television show, made him wait for a table and a light or two – it paled in comparison. 

He determinedly avoided thoughts of how he had messed, even indirectly, with the Bentley and how he had thrown as much agitation at the demon as he possibly could over the last few days. As with most angelic beings, he preferred to avoid thinking about things that made him out to be wrong. 

Instead, Aziraphale passed his time aggressively continuing the dusting he’d begun the other day. He had to admit, just a few days into this bet, that the amount of dust and grime building up in the store was mind-boggling. He truly had no idea that things got dirty this fast. How on earth did the humans keep up with it? He sighed and thought about how he just couldn’t wait to get back to doing things the regular way. 

He began at the top and worked his way down, starting with the shelves up at the top of the stairs, below the oculus. He started with the astronomy section and did his best to work his way through all of geology and physics before resting. 

The job was long and arduous, and in his irritation and absorption, he failed to notice that anything was amiss until it was nearly dinner time. 

Aziraphale made his way back down the stairs from the upper level, which was now sparkling clean, and headed over to check on Frederick in his basket. 

He froze when he discovered it empty. 

Empty? This had never happened before. 

Aziraphale walked nervously over to the vivarium, thinking perhaps he’d forgotten where he’d last placed Frederick, only to discover it empty as well. 

“Frederick?” he called, checking out the other usual spots the snake favored – the front windowsill, the back of the couch, even upstairs on the soft, down comforter that graced their bed. 

No snake. No sign of a snake. Nothing. Zero. Zilch.

His heart pounding, Aziraphale sat down on the bed to think. 

Could Crowley be behind this? He flushed, almost ashamed of himself for even thinking it, then frowned and gave it more thought. No, of course not. Crowley might go quite far to win the bet – farther than Aziraphale had ever expected, to be honest -- but he wouldn’t do anything to Frederick. He’d seen the growing levels of friendship and affection between the two of them. He knew beyond a doubt that Crowley had a few lines he wouldn’t cross, and this was one of them. 

No, the angel thought, he was to blame entirely. In his distraction and self-absorption, he hadn’t noticed that the snake had slithered off. 

He went to his desktop computer, brought up a browser, and looked up an article about how to find a missing snake. What he found made him break out in a cold sweat. He stared blankly at the partial list on the screen of places he should really look:

>   * behind, in, and under any cabinets, drawers, shelves, dressers, and bookcases
>   * inside any boxes and bags, including tissue boxes, backpacks, and purses; 
>   * inside boots and shoes, or any other small, dark places that are good for hiding; 
>   * inside computers; 
>   * in and near heating ducts; 
>   * behind or below cushions from couches and chairs, and down the sides and back of the furniture; 
>   * inside or under sheets and pillow cases, or inside the box spring; 
>   * on the underside of furniture, beds, and appliances, especially if there are any holes through which the creature could get inside the furniture/bed; 
>   * behind the refrigerator, in, under, and behind the oven, and in all kitchen appliances. 
> 


Aziraphale swallowed, mouth dry, and took a long, hard look at the shop around him. The shop that was packed, top to bottom, on every level and in every room, with books, shelves, boxes, baskets, furniture, scrolls, knick-knacks, pillows, clothing items, bags, hats, and approximately ten million other items where he was now supposed to hunt for his snake. 

He needed Crowley, he realized. He needed help. 

No you don’t, said a part of his brain. You can do this on your own, and anyway, he’s mad at you.

He unwisely chose to listen to that voice first. 

++

In his mostly empty apartment, Crowley was getting quite bored. He’d re-read all the fashion magazines. He’d dug through all of the cupboards. He’d drunk as much of the wine as he had a taste for right now, and to be honest he really didn’t feel like getting drunk alone. He passed some time letting thoughts of this morning’s disagreement encourage him to brush up on colorful swear words in several obscure languages. The Mesopotamians, for one, had been one of the first to elevate swearing to an art form, and the Etruscans had taken that base and elaborated it to a creative peak. Crowley made a mental note to consider translating a few bits of the as-of-yet unreadable relics in the British Museum, just to watch the conservators blush when they realized that what they thought was an epic poem was actually an early bit of erotic fanfiction. If they only knew what the early Gilgamesh spinoffs got up to…

He was still chasing down that thought when his phone rang. The angel’s picture popped up on his cell phone screen to indicate who was calling, and he tried to swallow down a wave of continuing petulance about how they’d parted that morning. He thought about not answering for all of 2.5 seconds before he picked it up out of habit. 

“Why hello, angel” he said, “calling to –”

“Crowley!” the angel broke in, his voice sounding desperate. “You have to help me.” He continued talking in an impenetrable, incomprehensible string of very fast syllables. 

Crowley’s pulse sped up immediately. “What? What’s happened? Slow down, take a breath. Is it the archangels?”

Aziraphale took a deep, shuddering breath. “No,” he said, sounding on the verge of tears. “It’s Frederick. He’s gone!” 

Crowley frowned. “Is this a trick?”

Aziraphale, when truly provoked, could produce a variety of creative swear words himself. He took the opportunity to do so now, rather loudly. Crowley held the phone away from his ear for a second and noted that the angel was going to get a rather bad headache from all that cursing in about thirty seconds.

He put it back to his ear when he heard him ramble to a stop.

“Ow,” Aziraphale said softly.

“I’m sorry,” the demon said, feeling quite contrite. “I don’t know why I said that. I’ll be right over, okay?”

++

Crowley pushed the speed limit using conventional human methods and nearly killed three pedestrians on his way over to the shop. He pulled into the loading zone nearby, threw the car into park, and all but catapulted himself out the door. 

The shop, when he entered, looked like a war zone. Books were off the stacks, pillows were on the floor, papers were everywhere, and the couch itself was laying on its back in the middle of the back room. Its bottom lining appeared to have been pulled loose in several spots.

“Aziraphale!” he shouted, turning around in a slow circle. “Where are you?”

Aziraphale came out from the kitchen area, looking frantic. “Oh, thank God! Frederick - he’s just gone! Missing! I wasn’t really paying attention for a few hours, I was upstairs cleaning the books in the rotunda, and then I noticed he wasn’t in his basket anymore. I’ve been looking for him for hours! I don’t know why he would run off like this, we have an _agreement_ and he’s never done it before…” He shuddered. “Oh Crowley, what if he went in the pipes? He could be halfway down the Thames by now!”

Crowley gripped him by the shoulders, just to slow him down. “Breathe, Aziraphale.”

The angel took a shaky breath. “I looked it up on the internet. The list of places they say to look if you lose a pet snake is mind boggling. Especially in here,” he whimpered, gesturing vaguely at, well, everything. 

Crowley leaned down and set the couch back to rights, then pulled Aziraphale down on it next to him. (The angel insisted on checking beneath the couch cushions first, even though he’d already done so at least four times.) 

“Aziraphale,” the demon said. “Look at me.” Aziraphale did. “You’re looking for him, manually, bit by bit, when you could just find him, instantly?”

The angel made a sour face. “I can’t _believe_ you are making this about winning the bet, Crowley!” he began, clearly regretting the impulse to ask for help. 

“I’m not!” Crowley said, quite genuinely. “I’m just pointing out that _you_ seem to be doing so, angel.”

Aziraphale blinked and the blood rushed out of his face, leaving him very pale. “I honestly just didn’t even think of using powers. I was in such a tizzy!”

Crowley made a firm and instant decision. “We’re both being idiots,” he said definitively, “and this has gone on long enough.” He turned in his seat to face Aziraphale, held out both hands and waggled them insistently until the angel took them, a hopeful look appearing on his face. “We are going to lose the bet together, right now.”

“You mean… what exactly?” said Aziraphale, still a little too hopped up on adrenaline and panic to follow. 

“We’re going to count to three and we’re both going to do a miracle,” Crowley said patiently, as if explaining to a spooked horse. “Nobody wins. We both lose. And Frederick gets found.” 

Aziraphale searched the demon’s eyes and found only love and sincerity there. 

“Okay,” he said, trust blooming in his face in a way even a demon couldn’t miss. 

They counted together. 

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

A slight pop, and a dusty and surprised looking snake appeared on the couch between them. 

“Frederick!” Aziraphale cried, picking him up and cuddling him. “Where were you?”

“Oh,” Crowley said, “that was an oversight. Now we don’t actually know what his hiding spot is.” 

“That’s all right,” Aziraphale said, frowning at the snake and speaking very clearly and directly, “because you’re never going to do that again, are you? Are you?”

Frederick flickered his tongue out a few times and declined to comment. 

“Give him to me,” Crowley said. “Maybe I can figure out where he’s been. You know, mano to mano. Snake to snake.” 

Aziraphale passed him over. Crowley held him and peered into his eyes, trying his best to connect with Frederick on his level. He let his eyes move to their full yellow snakiness and concentrated hard for a minute or two. 

I’M NOT GOING TO TELL YOU, YOU BIG IDIOT, Frederick shrieked psychically. GIVE ME BACK TO THE FUZZ BALL.

“I got nothing,” Crowley said, shrugging, and handed him back to Aziraphale, who carried him off, scolding him lovingly. 

++

They flopped onto the couch in a sense of deep exhaustion, both of them feeling boneless with the release of nearly a week’s worth of tension, plotting, and guarding. As their breathing returned to normal levels, they both simultaneously started to feel a rather excruciating sense of embarrassment about their actions. 

“So, er,” Aziraphale said, tentatively. “That all got a bit out of hand, didn’t it?”

Crowley nodded. “Bit of an understatement, if you ask me. But, yes.” He took a sip of scotch and let the warmth of it seep through his chest. “Not really what I intended,” he finished, lamely.

“I’m sorry, love, I had no idea I’d get so wrapped up in winning!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “I mean, I expected it from you, but…” he paused, unsure how to complete that thought.

Crowley rolled his eyes but his voice was mild. “Oh sure, the demon is the one you’d expect it from, not like your lot has ever shown themselves to be ruthless connivers.” 

Aziraphale reached over and laid a hand on the demon’s forearm, apologetically. “I just meant, I hadn’t quite realized I had that in me.”

Crowley smiled fondly at him. “I always knew you had it in you, angel.”

Aziraphale blushed. 

“You must admit, though,” the angel added a moment later, “you played a little dirtier than me. I mean, really, my coat _and_ my books? You, my dear, were really pushing it.” 

Crowley has the grace to look a little abashed. “Sssssorry,” he said quietly. He tried to think of an adequate excuse, and then just shrugged and went for the truth. “I just really wanted to win.” 

Aziraphale laughed at that. The sound was delightful, and they both relaxed a little. 

“Me too. We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?”

“Made for each other, possibly. Or we deserve each other,” Crowley said. “One of the two.”

“I think we should probably not do that again,” Aziraphale said, reasonably.

“Oh yeah,” Crowley said. “We might kill each other. No more bets?”

“No more bets.”

Crowley lifted an arm up invitingly and Aziraphale scooted over contentedly to lean against him, head on the demon’s shoulder. They sat quietly for a moment, contented. 

“So we both lost?” Aziraphale asked, tentatively. 

“Yep,” Crowley said, popping the P dramatically and sounding happy and tired all at once. “Big losers, the both of us. You ‘n me, in Loserville. Lost.”

“Lost together,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully. “That’s not so bad.”

Crowley felt an odd sensation in his chest, like something was trying to burst out despite his best efforts. He leaned in and found a way to stop any further conversation for the moment.

++

Frederick watched the two of them from his perch in the lidded glass vivarium, where he’d been placed with stern admonishments to never, ever run off again and a promise that perhaps they’d consider letting him back into the basket later if he was a Very Good Snake for a few hours. He watched them move from awkwardness to apologies to canoodling and felt a small thread of self-satisfaction run through him. 

He had done it. Had he had shoulders, he would have held them a little straighter. Had he had arms, he would have patted himself on the back. As it was, he coiled up contentedly and gave one last hiss at the thought of his ridiculous companions and the amount of help they needed to manage their lives. 

It was a good thing someone in this family had some measure of common sense, he thought as he tucked his nose in and drifted off to sleep. It wasn’t easy to have two unruly pets to raise, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on tumblr at <https://ineffably-good.tumblr.com>.
> 
> We have fan art! Thank you to the talented artists out there who have taken a minute to draw our little Frederick. I welcome any and all contributions!
> 
> 1) @rocketbeagle did a drawing of Frederick the snake! I love it. Go like their pic of : [Frederick curled around Crowley's neck](https://rocketbeagle.tumblr.com/post/186197588881/Frederick).
> 
> 2) Also from @rocketbeagle: [a full portrait of Frederick! ](https://rocketbeagle.tumblr.com/post/186339285825/have-another-frederick-uvu-from-ineffably-goods)
> 
> 3) From @akinmytua2, [this great pic of Frederick curled up in the sun on a bookshop chair.](https://akinmytua2.tumblr.com/post/187453068510/kodachrome-was-because-you-move-me-chapter-1)
> 
> 4) Also from @akinmytua2, this gorgeous view of :  
>  [ Frederick in the messenger bag from London Calling, right before he sneaks out to eat the bird](https://akinmytua2.tumblr.com/post/187743485645/london-calling-chapter-1-megzseattle-good)


End file.
